Storm Sail_A Connie Barrera Thriller_The 4th Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series Read online

  Satisfied that there was no fire, she stepped onto the companionway ladder and opened the door. "No fire," she yelled.

  "Good," Paul answered. "Any damage?"

  "Yes, but I'll check it out in a bit. I want to take a look at the seacocks first. How's the rig?"

  "Okay, from what I can see. Everything's still in place; nothing's moving that shouldn't be. It'll keep until you get back on deck. I'll check it then. Go make sure we're not taking on water."

  She closed the door and set about opening lockers to expose the seacocks, the heavy bronze valves that were used to close the drain lines that penetrated the hull below the waterline. Besides their primary function, the seacocks were part of the vessel's electrical grounding system. All of the underwater metal on the vessel was connected by heavy copper wire. This reduced galvanic corrosion and provided a discharge path for lightning strikes, at least in theory.

  When lightning struck a boat, the energy surge found its way into the sea, usually by following the grounding conductors to the underwater metal parts that were electrically bonded. Lightning strikes at sea were rare, but when one happened, it wasn't uncommon to have a seacock blown completely through the hull. This caused a gaping hole below the waterline, putting the vessel at risk of sinking. Connie lost no time in making sure that they weren't taking on water around any of the seacocks, and then she checked the bilge sump. Finding no evidence of leaks, she turned her attention back to the electrical panel.

  Georgina was seasick. The air was thick in the confined space of the life raft, and the opaque canopy didn't afford a view of the horizon to help her overcome her vertigo. She had been all right on Blue Wing, but this was different. The raft rose and fell through 25 or 30 feet every few seconds, rolling wildly on the peaks and in the valleys of the stormy seas.

  She crawled to the opening in the canopy and worked the zipper up enough so that she could slip her head out, retching as she fought to hold on. She had resisted the need to be sick as long as she could, worried that she might fall out of the wobbling, squishy raft. So miserable now that she didn't care if she fell overboard, she heaved again, gagging, but there was nothing left in her stomach. Holding on as a wave washed over her head, she felt her stomach spasm again.

  Spent, she pulled herself back into the raft. Her mouth tasted foul, and the saltwater burned her skin and eyes. She ripped open the Velcro closure of the bag that held their emergency rations and took out a one-pint pouch of water. Tearing the corner with her teeth, she filled her mouth with water and rinsed, swallowing because she knew she needed the liquid. She rinsed the salt from her face with the rest of the water and then realized that she should have saved it. They had 16 pints — 15, now, thanks to her. That wouldn't last long.

  She looked at Dalton, sprawled on the bottom of the raft. He had crashed soon after they cut the raft loose. He had been tweaking for the last three days, out of his mind on crystal meth. He would sleep most of the time for the next several days, now that he was coming down. The raft rolled onto its side, and she slid across the damp, slick fabric of the floor and landed on top of him.

  Jerking awake, he shoved her away, a wild look on his face. He swung at her and she ducked away, screaming at him. "It's me, Dalton!"

  He stared at her for a moment. "Sick," he said.

  "Yeah, no shit," she said, "I just— "

  "Need my fuckin' crank," he muttered, feeling around himself. "Where's my backpack?"

  "You lost it when we were gettin' on the raft," she lied, hoping that he wouldn't remember that she had let it slip over the side of Blue Wing, pretending to lose her grip on it when the boat rolled. She'd done it for his own good; the meth was killing him.

  "Raft?" he mumbled, looking at her, his eyes fiery. "The fuck you talkin' about?"

  "We're in the life raft, remember? You said the big boat was gonna sink."

  "Gimme my goddam backpack, bitch. I'm hurtin', bad. Need my shit now."

  "It's not here, Dalton," she said, just before his fist connected with her right cheek, knocking her over. He picked up the bag that held their rations and threw it aside. She yelled, "No!" as she watched it go through the opening that she had failed to zip shut in her distress. "Now you've done it, you stupid fuckin' tweaker," she screamed.

  He hit her again, this time knocking her unconscious.

  Connie and Paul were wedged in the cockpit, sipping coffee. The wind had dropped to 45 knots, although the seas were still monstrous. It was 8 a.m. The sun had been up for two hours, though the light had a dim, otherworldly quality.

  "I liked it better when it was dark," Connie said.

  "Yeah? Why?"

  "Couldn't see how big the waves were," Connie said, watching as a mountain of iron-colored water roared toward them, the crest of the wave falling over with a crash as it reached the boat. Drenched with spray, she spluttered, "Shit! So much for my coffee. I hate cold, salty coffee."

  "Just dump it over the side," Paul said, twisting the top of the thermos open and extending it toward her. "At least we can see, now. Except for the waves, I don't think it's as scary in the daylight."

  "Oh, you're right," she said. "Don't mind me. I'm just grouchy because I'm cold and wet." She poured some fresh coffee into her mug and took a sip. "Nervous about going on?" she asked.

  "You mean because of the radios and the chart-plotter? Some of us have been sailing since before those were around," Paul said. "Well, I guess radio was around, but nobody had ship-to-shore radios on boats like this. You were talking about a roomful of equipment back then."

  "Okay, Methuselah. Don't remind me that I'm about to marry a Neanderthal when we get to Martinique. And don't forget, the satcom system bit the dust, too."

  Paul grinned. "Hey, we've got a working handheld GPS. And a handheld VHF, too. We know where we are and where we're going, and we can talk to any ship that's about to run us down. And there’s the satellite phone. We can still call home, wherever that is."

  She shook her head. "It got fried. It was plugged into the charger when the lightning struck. Speaking of which, the inverter's dead, so we don't have any way to charge the handhelds."

  "Or the main ship's batteries, for that matter," Paul added. "The alternator's toast. Once the seas settle down, I'll see about installing the spare. Then we'll be able to charge the ship's batteries a little, at least. Might have to leave the refrigeration turned off, though."

  "I'm surprised the fridge didn't get ruined," Connie said. "I would have thought all the electronics in the control circuits would have been zapped."

  "Lightning damage is unpredictable. I had a friend once, an engineer who worked at the old Bell Labs. He spent a lot of time down in Florida, studying lightning damage to the telephone company's systems. There was no rhyme or reason to it that they could find. I mean, aside from the obvious stuff, like don't be the highest point around. We're lucky we didn't have any worse damage; we're afloat and the rig's still in the air. That's 90 percent of sailing."

  "If you say so. We don't really have many options, when you get down to it. We could turn around and go to Bermuda, but the people there are probably in worse shape than we are. We've got food and water, and like you said, we can sail. Guess we are lucky."

  3

  Georgina feigned sleep as she heard Dalton rummaging through the meager contents of the raft. In the confined space, she was being pummeled by his feet as he shuffled around on his knees, muttering to himself. Her face hurt; her left eye was swollen shut from where he had hit her earlier. She knew he would be a dangerous companion for a while; she was doing her best to avoid any interaction with him.

  Meth withdrawal was unpredictable, at least in her experience, which was considerable. She'd stayed clear of the stuff herself, but she was well-acquainted with numerous users. Dalton was just the most recent one. When she had reconnected with him, he'd only been out on the street for a few days. She was sure he'd been using while he was inside; most cons did. But when she met him in the bar in Annapolis
, he'd been like a kid in a candy store — meth could be had inside, but it was way more available outside. He'd been cranked ever since then.

  By the time they'd managed to talk their way aboard Blue Wing, he'd been high for a couple of weeks. When they had begun sharing the watch schedule with the Lloyds, she had noticed that he was smoking meth whenever he was on watch. She had joined him in the cockpit during one of her off-watch periods when she couldn't sleep. He'd been cranking himself up then.

  "You smokin' every watch?" she'd asked, after declining his offer of the pipe.

  "Yeah. Only fuckin' way to stay awake. This is boring as shit, ain't it?"

  "I reckon. I been kinda enjoyin' it. Lookin' at them stars and all. Ain't never seen so many. It's different out here. Peaceful, like, and so quiet. First time I reckon I've had time to think since I was little."

  "The hell is there to think about?"

  "Oh, you know. I been wonderin' where we was gonna end up, what we was gonna do fer a livin' once we get to the islands. Like that. I been thinkin' you and me might could — "

  "Jesus!" he had shrieked, jumping up and tearing at his clothes. "They're fuckin' all over me."

  She'd caught the pipe as he dropped it, dumping the smoldering contents of the bowl over the side as she dodged his frenzied movements. Ripping his shirt off, he'd begun picking at himself, tearing his skin, making himself bleed. She'd seen this before; her mother and sister had been meth heads. She'd been surprised that he had not been hallucinating earlier at the rate he'd been using. She took the helm and waited, staying out of his way until he calmed down.

  She'd helped him get his shirt back on as he began to nod off. With luck, he'd come back around in a little bit and she could go back to sleep for an hour or two before she officially came on watch. It wouldn't have done to leave him in that condition, though. Old Harry Lloyd was in the habit of popping his head out of the companionway to check on things if he couldn't sleep. At the time, she'd been worried about what might happen if he found Dalton crashing.

  She had imagined that Harry would be angry, which wouldn't have gone over well with Dalton. At that point, she had not seen the paranoia or the insane anger that often accompanied the abuse of crystal meth, but then she hadn't seen Dalton hallucinate until then, either.

  While she had been recalling his recent drug use, Dalton had settled down against the air-filled tubes on the opposite side of the raft. With relief, she heard him snore. She'd best try to sleep while he did; no telling what he'd do when he woke up again.

  Mary Samuels picked her way through the automated response system that had answered her call to the Coast Guard. Alarmed at first by the recorded menu, she relaxed as she heard a human answer her call.

  "This is Petty Officer Daniels. How may I assist you?" a woman asked.

  "I'm calling because my parents are out on their boat in the path of Hurricane Ian, and I haven't heard from them in over 24 hours," Mary said.

  "Okay, ma'am. Were they in distress the last time you heard from them?"

  "No, they were in heavy seas and high winds, but they were okay. They're sailing from Annapolis to the Virgin Islands. They always send me an email every six hours when they're offshore."

  "Okay, and you haven't heard from them for 24 hours, you said?"

  "Yes, that's right. This isn't like them. I mean, they make this trip every couple of years, and ... "

  "Okay, ma'am. I understand. What we'll do is treat this as an overdue vessel. I'll need to ask you a series of questions that will give us the information we need to begin a search."

  "Okay, thanks," Mary said. "I've tried to tell them they're too old for this, but ... "

  "Yes, ma'am. Did they report their position when you got the last email?"

  "Yes. They were at 32.05 degrees North, 65.29 degrees West. They said they were about 40 miles from Bermuda."

  "Okay, got that. And what time did they send that email?”

  "Eight a.m. Eastern time yesterday."

  "Now, were they planning to stop in Bermuda?"

  "No, not unless they changed their plans after they sent the email. They would have let me know. Their usual route is straight from the Chesapeake to a waypoint at 25 degrees North, 65 degrees West, and then they turn due south."

  "Okay, and you said they left from Annapolis. When was that?"

  "Six days ago," Mary said.

  "Okay. I need the name and description of the vessel. Is it power or sail?"

  "Sail. It's named Blue Wing."

  "How long is it?"

  "Forty-two feet."

  "One mast, or two?"

  "Two."

  "Color of hull?"

  "Dark blue."

  "Color of deck and superstructure?"

  "White."

  "Color of sails?"

  "White."

  "Do they carry a life raft?"

  "Yes."

  "You said they were in touch by email. Do you know if they used HF radio or a satellite system for email?"

  "Ham radio. They have a satellite phone, but it goes straight to voice mail, so it's probably not turned on."

  "Okay. Do you have that number?"

  "Yes." Mary gave them the number.

  "Do you know if the vessel is equipped with an EPIRB? That's a — "

  "I know what it is, and yes, they have one. I'm listed as the first emergency contact on that form they had to fill out for NOAA."

  "Okay, good. We haven't seen a deployment of their EPIRB. You haven't had a call about it, have you?"

  "No, but I'm — "

  "I know you're worried. The EPIRB status doesn't change anything, since you're reporting them overdue. EPIRBs don't always get deployed, and sometimes, they go off by accident, so I have to ask. The Search and Rescue teams need to know if it's been deployed because they can home in on it directly from several miles out, once they're in the vicinity."

  "Okay," Mary said.

  "How many people on board?" Daniels asked.

  "Four. My parents, Marilyn and Harry Lloyd, and a couple they picked up as crew in Annapolis."

  "Names of the two crew members?"

  "I don't know. They didn't say."

  "Okay. Do you know if anybody on board Blue Wing has a medical condition?"

  "Neither of my folks, but I don't know about the crew."

  "Anything else you can think of that might help us find your parents?"

  "N-no, I can't think of anything."

  "Okay. I've just put out an overdue vessel report. It's already being broadcast. We'll deploy patrol aircraft as the weather permits. If you hear from your parents, call back to this number and let us know immediately. We'll call you as soon as we have anything to report. Is this number you're calling from the best way to reach you?"

  "Yes, thank you."

  "You're welcome, ma'am. It's what we're here for."

  "All right, start the engine," Paul called. He sat on the cabin sole facing aft, the diesel exposed to his view. The engine box and the companionway ladder were in the middle of the cabin sole behind him.

  The engine coughed once and rumbled to life. After watching it for a few seconds, he pushed himself to his feet and moved to a position where he could see the secondary engine instrument panel. The ammeter showed over 100 amps going into the batteries. Relieved, he yelled up to Connie, "Looking good."

  He jockeyed the engine box into place and fastened it down with the latches. The reduction in the sound level was palpable. He put the companionway ladder back in place on top of the engine box and climbed up to where he could see Connie. She sat behind the helm, a grin on her face.

  "It's charging?" she asked.

  "Yep. One dragon slain."

  "Does this mean we can turn the fridge back on?" she asked.

  "For now. We’ll let it run while the engine's on, charging the batteries. Then we can experiment. We'll have to figure out whether we can afford to use our diesel fuel that way."

  "You don't think you can get the sola
r panels working?" she asked.

  "That's next, skipper. Let me catch my breath. Installing an alternator while we're rolling around like the laundry in a front-loading washing machine kind of wore me out."

  "Come on up here, then. I saved the last of the coffee for you."

  "Think I will." He climbed into the cockpit and sat down next to her. "Sea state's moderated quite a bit."

  She nodded and passed him the thermos. "Yes, it has."

  "Still a pretty wild ride below decks," he said. "Especially if you're trying to work on something with one hand while you hold on."

  "I can imagine," she said. "You think the panels survived the lightning strike?"

  He shrugged. "Hard to know without wiring them in direct. With any luck, it's just the voltage regulator that got zapped."

  "They'll work without the regulator?"

  "If they're okay, they will. We'll have to keep an eye on the battery voltage and shut the panels off if it gets too high."

  "That's manageable, if it means we can run the fridge without having to run the engine," Connie said.

  Paul chuckled. "For a woman who doesn't go near the galley, you sure seem worried about the fridge."

  "Hey, I hired myself this great Italian chef. Just because I don't cook doesn't mean I don't like to eat."

  "And here I thought it was just my body you were interested in." Paul grinned as he sipped his coffee.

  "I need for you to keep your strength up, Cookie," she teased. "I hear you old guys can be kind of fragile."

  "You too tired to keep up with an old man, are you?"

  "I'm starving; you haven't fed me a hot meal in days, and don't give me that old hurricane excuse."

  "Yes, ma'am. Er, I mean, no, ma'am." Taking in the mock scowl on her face, he said, "Aye, captain. Guess I'd better get back to work. Got to fix those solar panels."